Conspiracy Theory
by SecretsAndLiesContest
Summary: When confronted with life-altering information, Bella begins to wonder – is it a conspiracy theory if it turns out to be true?


**Title:** Conspiracy Theory

 **Summary:** When confronted with life-altering information, Bella begins to wonder – is it a conspiracy theory if it turns out to be true?

 **Pairing:** Bella/Edward

 **Rating:** T for language

 **Word Count:** 9381

 **DISCLAIMER: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. No copyright infringement is intended.**

Conspiracy Theory

Summary: When confronted with life-altering information, Bella begins to wonder – is it a conspiracy theory if it turns out to be true?

Listen to me.

(Don't listen to me. Really, don't. Half the time I'm talking, it's all complete bluster and hot air designed to fill the awkward, empty space between thoughts. I've never in my life made a miraculous, profound point. I'm entirely convinced that every word I've ever said is utterly pointless. Probably.)

The world works in certain ways. People are obedient, rules are followed, and each day passes as smoothly as the last for most everyone. There is peace and harmony and life is good. The Earth is self-sustaining; disease is almost unheard of outside of catastrophic accidents; humanity is even exploring space beyond the farthest reaches of our solar system.

(Except it wasn't always like that, was it? People used to be fiercely independent. History tells stories about grand revolutions and even if nobody reads those books anymore, it doesn't change the fact that it happened. And it still _matters_ that it happened. Before the necessity to survive The Meteor, before science saved the human race, before the treaty with the Centaurians, the world was kind of shitty and we've all basically forgotten about it.)

Life goes on. Life is good.

(Until it isn't – because there are some secrets that are better left lost to history and some conspiracy theories that are actually _true._ )

"We're going to be so late," Alice says fretfully. She's such a perfectionist, her uniform crisply pressed, her short inky hair pinned back by twin silver barrettes, the exact picture of what a prospective Student should look like. Except for the pinched expression on her face, of course, and the way her hazel eyes are looking at me with accusation. "They're never going to let us take the test now. I hope you're happy."

"Absolutely thrilled," I reply cheerfully. I'm so busy trying to close out the coding application on my phone – hello, project of the week - that I don't notice Alice's unimpressed side-eye for a good few moments. I roll my eyes as the bus slows down with a faint whine of the hover engine braking. "We're not that late. Really."

Total lie. We're _so_ late, at least by the standards of The Center School, where ideally everyone is supposed to be early to be considered prompt.

All things considered, of course, being fifteen minutes late to the qualification test isn't such a big deal. The way I see it, being hand-picked and head-hunted by The Center School from our sleepy Pacific Northwestern town means we have a little more leeway than other applicants. The Center School _wants_ Alice and me to attend their extremely prestigious program; they probably won't care _that much_ about a little tardiness. Possibly. It's not like I've run the numbers on that probability, or anything.

Except that I did last night when I was too excited-nervous-anxious to sleep in the tricked-out hotel where The Center School is temporarily hosting all the transient applicants. Which is why I overslept, although that _so_ isn't the point.

After disembarking from the bus, the gravity of the situation really hits me – metaphorically, that is, because The Central School is _impressive_ and everything, but it's just a building and isn't capable of physical assault. Aptly named, The Central School is located in one of the prime cities in Northern America; right at the heart of a bustling downtown, The School takes up roughly three city blocks, with the main building being this towering spire of glass punctuated by two shorter, gleaming towers with bridges connecting to the main floor. I've always thought The Central School had the appearance of some post-modern art piece, which is probably fitting for a feat of architectural ecological sustainability. There is a startling amount of plants arranged around the spherical green courtyard. I try not to sneeze as I keep pace with Alice's quick-step, single-minded march toward the front entrance.

God, but she walks _really_ fast for someone below average height. And in adjusting my stride so I don't fall behind, I end up – loudly – banging my elbow against the chrome edge of the door as it swings shut behind me. Naturally. I bite on my tongue so I don't curse, but I can't manage to withhold the tiny whimper of pain locked behind my teeth. I can almost feel the bruise forming already.

" _Bella_ ," Alice hisses in annoyance.

"Don't mind me. You know how I like to make a memorable entrance," I say with a smile.

Does it count as a lie if it's technically true? I mean, I do tend to make a particular sort of first impression, but I don't really _like_ that I do it. This probably counts as a half-lie.

I look around the deserted lobby, following the theme of plants potted in wooden square displays with a sense of resignation. There's a counter toward the back of the room with white lounge couches on either side. It's kind of funny how the reception area of The Central School isn't so pedestrian as to have magazines or anything. It's sort of pretentious.

And I sort of don't want to be here. I'm not even sure why I was chosen. The representative plucking Alice Brandon out of podunk little Forks makes sense, because Alice epitomizes the kind of Student that goes to any of The Schools. But me? I'm average, almost painfully so in every way that matters. I kind of just… _coast_. I _shouldn't_ be here.

We soon discover that there isn't anyone sitting at the reception desk and Alice looks fit to tear into a tirade about timeliness. I reach for my phone with every intention of tuning her out, but then there is the low clack of heels on the white tiled floor and a gentle clearing of a throat. I turn around and blink in astonishment.

Everyone in my generation knows what the Centaurians – our ever-pleasant alien allies who are helping us Terrans embrace the future – look like. They are always tall with spindly sort of limbs, long necks and a gracile structure to their bones. They're physically stronger than humans, something to do with the way their planet oscillates between the rival suns that make Alpha Centauri, and many look vaguely aquatic, depending on the exact region they hail from on their home world. I've heard rumors that they can breathe underwater and looking at the iridescent scales smattered along the edges of this Centaurian's face, I can believe it.

This is the first time I've seen a Centaurian up close, though. I try not to stare. Or at least I try not to be obvious about it. The camera hides all kinds of details, like the way Centaurian pupils are slightly oblong and the faint bluish cast to this Centaurian's skin. She's definitely female – secondary sex characteristics seem to be universal – and seems to possess a friendly disposition. Her eyes are a dark blue streaked with ice, large and wide and utterly inhuman, but set in a perfect balance with the rest of her face. She introduces herself as Renata.

"We have been waiting for you," she says with a pleasant, close-lipped smile, stepping back with one hand held as if to lead the way. Renata waves away Alice's hasty apologies about our lateness, which is nice of her. "Come along, Isabella Swan and Alice Brandon. Your testing awaits."

The way she says it isn't _creepy_ , exactly. Only kind of, like, foreboding.

Renata takes us to an auditorium filled with other prospective Students, males and females all aged 18 to 21, all in peak health, and all possessing some skill or talent that the Centaurians think will help humanity reach for the future. Or more specifically, reach for the stars.

Only about half of the hundred or so humans look up when Renata opens the door; the other half have the same look that Alice does, harried and over-achieving and about five seconds from _snapping_. We're all wearing the same plain uniform, a unisex combination of white shirt, grey tie, and tapered grey pants. I find myself looking at people's shoes as we find our seats in the back row, which is up a short flight of stairs. I don't feel so bad about the tattered black boots on my own feet. Inanely, I wonder if actual Students are issued School-regulated shoes. But that doesn't matter, does it? It's not like I'm actually going to _pass_ this test.

Except, in spite of being late and being so damn average, I do pass the test. I mean, it wasn't _difficult_ or anything, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised, but I am sort of dumbfounded to find that I score in the upper percentile. I guess, despite what Alice seems to think, punctuality isn't so important.

It isn't really a secret that The Central School essentially turns the best and the brightest of what humanity has to offer into astronauts. It was part of the treaty with the Centaurians; after their technology saved Earth from the prospect of world-ending calamity from a meteor storm, the world leaders at the time agreed that it made sense for there to be a program designed for humans to learn from our alien saviors. Thusly, The Schools were created, some of them specializing in specific skill sets, but all of them tied to whatever Centrality is in the continent. In Northern America, that Centrality is The Central School, and its purpose is as close to bootcamp as I ever want to get.

Although, astronauts is kind of a colloquial term that doesn't really describe what the Centuarians are trying to help humanity build. I might be going into space, but I'm not _really_ going to be an astronaut. At least, I don't think I will, because astronauts have to pass some pretty grueling physical training and I'm about as far from athletic as anyone could possibly be. Astronauts are the ones who do spacewalks and take _small steps for mankind_ ; I'll probably end up being an analyst, or something. I don't even know. In a way, I kind of envy how sure Alice is about all of this. She's known since we were kids that she's going to be a doctor on the cutting edge of turning space discoveries into life-saving medicine. The Centaurians might have helped humanity get rid of the common cold, but cancer is still an issue and Alice has _always_ intended on finding the cure.

It isn't so shocking that we're put into different classes, then. I mean, it was probably going to happen anyway since Alice's score on the test was a few percentiles lower than mine, but it also seems like The Central School has sorted her into classes with other science-minded Students. It's fine. Alice Brandon might be someone I've known since I was five, but we're not exactly friends.

(I haven't had a real friend since Charlie died. Renee says I haven't _let_ myself have friends and she's probably right. I just still can't get over how a freak accident involving a deer and a snowy backroad took my father's life but spared mine. It's never made sense – and neither does the silvery scar on my temple, like a splat of ink that never quite faded after I left the hospital.)

At first glance, my class seems to be a random hodge-podge of Students that don't quite belong together, but we've been sorted this way for a reason. Class A Students are just that – the highest percentile of test-takers all packed into one group. All of them seem to have some kind of goal in mind, just like Alice. They have ideas about which of The Schools they'll be going to after they graduate from here.

It's _definitely not_ intimidating. Not at all.

I do find the classes fun, if not exactly challenging. It's all very intense and fast-paced and our Centuarian instructors are _very_ thorough at instilling copious amounts of information in us. There are classes for physics, chemistry, computers, and engineering; classes for language and psychology and cultural studies; physical education classes, too, which cover everything from basic self-defense instruction to fine-tuning proprioperception to exercises in zero-gravity stimulators. Each day is _exciting_ , stimulating in a way that I've never really experienced before. And I find myself excelling in this environment, immersed in the expectations that I am required to meet day in and day out.

I find that I have a competitive streak. I want to be the best. I might not know what direction I'm going, but damned if I'm not going to be at the top, wherever that is.

My Centuarian instructors seem to notice my progress – and they seem to recognize that I'm ready for more, almost before _I_ do. Like, it becomes rapidly apparent that mathematics and computer engineering are old-hat for me, and instead of keeping me in those classes, I'm given extra instruction in Centaurian culture and xenoanthropology and challenged with a free-range project to create a new basal software for linguistic translation. Other teachers I've had have always taken my lack of enthusiasm for their classes as disrespectful, but the Centaurians recognize it for what it is – and they keep me away from boredom with zeal.

It's during one of these times when I first see him.

I'm in the middle of coding an artificial intelligence to identify nuanced syntax in language when the lab door opens. My fingers still on the glass keyboard and I look up sharply after checking the time – I still have twenty minutes left until I have to be back with the rest of my class for our gravity simulation. But standing in the doorway isn't one of my classmates or instructors or even the odd robot janitor that beeps around occasionally.

He seems young for a Centaurian. Not that Centaurians typically look old, or anything, but all the ones I've met usually have this weight of age in their eyes – which makes sense for how long their lifespans are, most of them not even reaching "middle age" until two hundred Earth years.

This one, on the other hand, has vividly green eyes, streaked like malachite and bright with a glimmer of _youth_. He's handsome, a nest of wind-swept bronze hair glinting metallic beneath the lab lights and a full mouth; his straight nose features a single ridge, which is matched by the ridges beneath his eyes and over either brow; and the small, flat scales peppered along his cheekbones and reaching into his hairline are a fine mixture of silver and gold, like he's covered in faintly glittery freckles.

I've begun to suspect that there's some kind of caste system to the tertiary features that Centaurians have. Certainly, the variation in how little or how many scales and ridges they have must mean _something_ to the Centaurians, but none of my studies have even hinted that this might be the case. Of course, for all that Centaurians are eager to share their knowledge, they can be oddly close-lipped about their culture. They probably have a good reason for it, too.

"Forgive me," says the Centaurian. His hands are clasped behind his back, posture perfect with straight shoulders and an even stance to his legs. "I did not mean to intrude."

"You didn't," I say.

He did.

"Even so, I should have noticed the occupation light on the door," he counters with a self-deprecating smile.

"Really, it's no problem. I wasn't doing anything important."

I don't know why I say this, because my project _is_ important – to me, at least. But I'm always doing this, chronically undercutting my own worth. It's something of a problem.

The Centaurian doesn't look like he believes me, which is fair enough. Instead of calling me out on it, though, all he says is, "I'm Edward."

"That's not really your name," I tell him without thinking. Heat suffuses my cheeks immediately, because _hello, that's so rude_. I bite my lip and drop my eyes, cringing internally and resisting the urge to smack my hand against my face.

The Centuarian, Edward, laughs a muffled bark of a sound. "You're right," he says with mirth and when I look up, he is smiling openly in a way that so few Centuarians do. "But, as I'm sure you know, humans have a hard time pronouncing Centaurian titles, and I've found it's easier to just give the human English-Standard approximation. Unless you'd rather try your luck?"

"I think I've probably embarrassed myself enough for one day," I say honestly. "I'm Isabella, by the way. Bella."

"Well met," says Edward. He looks like he's going to say more, but then there is a sound from the hall outside – a voice calling a name – and he sighs heavily. Then, dipping his head apologetically, he says, "Again, I am sorry to disturb you. I must be off. Perhaps we will meet again."

"Yeah," I say faintly to his back, watching the door close and trying to ignore the absurd flutter in the pit of my stomach.

It only occurs to me several hours later that Edward looks _familiar_ to me. But I know I've never seen him before. Right?

4.

I wake up suddenly with a gasp on my lips, cold sweat pebbling on my skin. Though my eyes are gritty, I don't close them again. I know that if I do, all I'll see is the afterimage of the accident splayed across the backs of my eyelids; it's bad enough that I can still hear the screeching twist of metal in my ears and that my mind is playing tricks on me, giving me scents of fire and gasoline and coppery blood instead of the mint tea I spilled across my bedspread earlier.

I remember the accident in horrifying detail, like it's branded in my mind. It's no wonder that I'm predisposed to clumsiness, since it seems like I can't go more than few days before the flashbacks encroach on my sleep again – I'm stuck in a perpetual state of sleep deprivation.

But something about this nightmare is different. I've had the same dream for thirteen years and never, not once, has anything ever changed. Until now. For the life of me, I can't quite put my finger on what has changed and, honestly, I don't _want_ to, because then that means I'm thinking about the night my father died and –

I don't like thinking about it.

The scar on my temple tingles, sensitive to the touch. I tell myself it doesn't matter.

(It does.)

5.

"So you're the one screwing up the curve for the rest of us," says a man as he settles down across from me in a private computer lab, all the way up on the fifteenth floor of The Central School.

"I guess so," I say uncertainly, eyeing him with some trepidation.

" _Excellent._ In that case, I have a proposition for you, whiz kid."

I stare at him blankly.

He introduces himself as Emmett McCartney. Emmett has the kind of physique that, in another life, would have made him great at sports; he's broadly built with wide hands and has a larger-than-life personality. Seeing Emmett sit behind a computer terminal is almost comical for how much he dwarfs the screens and the chair.

But I know better than to judge by appearances at The Central School. I soon learn that it's Emmett's girlfriend, Rosalie Hale, who dominates the grueling physical regimen required of the Students training to be _actual_ astronauts. Emmett calls himself _Manly Tech Support_ and jokes that his girl likes him better when he's safely on desk duty. He's just boisterous enough that I figure Rosalie Hale is probably right.

Emmett claims that there is a challenge going around some of the other classes, a sort of test being issued to Students who are looking to get into The Xenology School. "I've heard a rumor that you are going around dominating all the classes kind of aimlessly," he says bluntly. "So, when I heard about this challenge, I thought, _Hey_ , _I bet Wunderkind is perfect for this_. I even put money on it."

I struggle not to gape at him.

My efforts are futile because I'm totally gaping at him. How could I not?

I squint at Emmett around the teeny glare of the flat computer monitor. "To clarify, you learned about an _illegal_ challenge to hack into the Centaurian Alpha Data Base to find information about their culture that is _classified_ and thought that I, a perfect stranger, would be adequately skilled in completing such a challenge that you felt compelled to bet on it?"

Emmett grins broadly. "Yep. That's the gist of it."

"An inspired idea," I mutter dispassionately.

This guy is _crazy_. Maybe _legitimately_ crazy.

"I thought so," Emmett says proudly. "So, you'll do it, right?"

"You really bet on _me_?"

"A whopping three hundred credits and a plate of triple-chocolate brownies."

I pause. "Fine. But I want a cut of your winnings."

What am I thinking? Maybe I'm crazy, too.

6.

The thing is, hacking into the Alpha Data Base is hard, but not impossible. I have enough time and access at The Central School between classes that I can chip away at the impressive firewalls around the information hub at my leisure. That doesn't mean I'm not careful, though, or extremely paranoid that I'm going to get caught. I wasn't kidding when I said it was illegal.

But then again, I doubt that the Centaurians are ignorant about this challenge spreading among The Schools. If they really didn't want Students trying to get classified information, then they would stop it from happening. I start thinking about it as less of a challenge and more of a test. I'm almost certain that it _is_ a test of some kind and that errant competitive streak makes me want to be the first one – the only one – to pass it.

The hacking is slow-going, however. The Centaurians are lightyears ahead of human understanding of computer science and there seems to be something almost sentient about the way the firewalls behave that reminds me distinctly of the language AI I've been designing.

Again, it's one of those times when I'm settled in the computer lab when I find myself in the company of someone else. It's becoming a pattern, my being accosted by social demands while I'm in the labs.

For the second time, I look away from the computer to see Edward standing in the doorway. He's dressed impressively in all black, his eyes still as intensely green as before.

And, stupidly, I open my mouth without really thinking. "You, again!"

I'm an idiot.

Edward smiles in that Centaurian way, like he's got a thousand secrets locked behind his lips. "Me again," he confirms. "Might I join you?"

I shrug and frown in confusion. He isn't a Student, judging by the lack of drab white-and-grey uniform, and by that measure, he probably has access to more parts of The Central School than I do. And considering all of that, he wants to hang out in a computer lab that I'm already occupying.

That new paranoia of mine pipes up in worry, wondering if Edward was sent here to see how much progress I've made with the Alpha Data Base hacking. Surreptitiously, my fingertips glide over the flat keyboard and cover any tracks I've made before I remove myself from the system entirely. Better safe than sorry.

Edward moves with the same type of grace as other Centaurians, only it's somehow _more_ – almost stately, in a way. I think it must have something to do with how Earth has a lower gravity than their homeworld, but I'm not gauche enough to ask. The lab itself is not exactly spacious, so it doesn't take long until he's seating himself a few terminals away and gifting me with a friendly smile.

I'm still suspicious.

"They talk about you," Edward says after a moment. "Isabella Swan, the most impressive recruit in a decade. Some of the instructors scramble to keep up with you, I've heard."

"Where have you heard that?"

Although, if it _is_ true, then that would explain how Emmett knew about me.

Edward tilts his head, metallic scales catching the light. "Here and there."

"How mysterious," I say dryly.

"We all have our secrets."

"Some more than others," I observe pointedly.

His lips quirk to the side crookedly; he's the first Centaurian I've ever seen _smirk_. He almost looks rakish, sitting so languidly in the chair and speaking so casually. A bit of a rebel, for an alien. "What my guard detail does not know will not hurt them."

"I…don't know how to respond to that," I say helplessly.

Because _guard detail_? Who the hell _is_ Edward?

He winks at me, then stands abruptly. Edward leans toward my computer terminal and he raises the ridge of his brow. "A word of advice? Dig deeper than you think you need to. There are some secrets that you need to uncover."

"What does _that_ mean?" I demand, surging from my chair as he moseys to the door. "Hey, you can't just say something like that and not explain!"

Edward pauses, turning back to me. "It means I'm tired of lying."

And then he's gone.

And it's possible that I spend _way too long_ trying to figure out what even just happened and what kind of _secrets_ and _lies_ Edward could possibly be hinting at and how he would even _know_ about them in the first place before I decide – feeling rather determined – that the only thing I can do is what I've been doing. Hacking the Alpha Data Base. Because now it's more than just some credits motivating me.

7.

When the accident happened, it was because Charlie swerved to avoid a deer in the road. He should have braked, but he didn't. The cruiser flipped over the ditch on the roadside and wrapped around one of the ancient evergreens that populate the greater Pacific Northwest area. I remember exactly what it was like, that dizzying spin with the seatbelt digging into my sternum, and the horrible crashing sounds as the cruiser finally settled. The last thing I _really_ remember, though, is looking at Charlie from the back seat, his head lolling at an unnatural angle – and then there is blackness.

Until now, every flashback in my dreams has ended just like that. The utter darkness.

Not this time.

This time, before I wake up, I have the sense-memory of _moving_ – the icy chill of snow against my back – the press of some warm, soft touch on the side of my head –

I feel really dumb when I wake up, because I've never before questioned _how_ I got out of that mangled car. And as my hand presses against the tingling silver scar on my temple, I can't quite shake the thought that I was saved for a reason.

8.

The Central School apparently decides that I need a mentor and I am assigned to a stalwart Centaurian named Siobhan who specializes in Xenology – the cultural studies. Even though I have an aptitude for the computer sciences, The Central School seems to be of the opinion that my blooming analyst skills are better suited to serving a broader purpose. If it's a fact that aliens exist, then eventually there will come a time when humanity is exposed to aliens _other_ than the Centaurians. And when that time comes, according to Siobhan, I've got the exact type of skills that the Centaurians are looking for.

I'm not completely convinced of this, but I'm well aware my estimation of my self-worth is poor. So.

Siobhan is so serious that it takes me a while to realize that she's letting things slip around me. It's little things that common sense has already pointed me toward, like the whole secret caste system the Centaurians have which is based on their scale coloring, and the truth about them being a partially-aquatic species. She even refers to her husband, Liam, as _mate_ and makes a few transparent references about Terran species that mate for life, like penguins. And it's all really interesting, because this is probably the exact kind of information that I'll find once I finish hacking into the Alpha Data Base.

But then one day when she's praising me for the language translation AI I've designed an ear-piece prototype for, she lets something a bit bigger slip.

She says, "The Crowned Prince will be very intrigued by this."

And I can only stare up at her, rendered completely speechless by this revelation.

The Centaurians are a _monarchy_.

9.

When I do finish hacking into the Alpha Data Base, it's anticlimactic at best. I stop as soon as I gain access, make a backdoor for myself so I can get back inside anytime I choose, and run a cursory search for proof that Centaurians breathe underwater. I take the proof to Emmett and wait patiently for him to finish crowing about winning that baffling bet. He tries to give me the credits, but I ask for the brownies instead.

The brownies are _amazing_ and worth the indignity of standing by while Emmett brags on my behalf about being the first Student to get hack the Data Base successfully.

More importantly, though, the brownies are the perfect snack to take back to the labs later on, after all the other Students have cleared out of The Central School for the day. I go back to the computer lab I've begun to think of as _mine_ and go through the motions of finding the backdoor I created earlier that day.

I take a deep breath, aware that I'm about to do something stupid for the _second_ time.

(It doesn't stop me.)

At first, there's an overwhelming amount of information. Really, it could take me _years_ to sort through it all. It's clear from the start that the Centaurians are a really old civilization, technologically advanced beyond my wildest dreams; in guiding the human race, they've been very careful to only give us breadcrumbs and then the space to draw our own conclusions, to make our own advancements. There's a lot that's completely over my head, either because I can't understand it, or because my handy language AI simply can't translate the information for me. A pity, that.

I don't know where to start looking and so I pick something recent, something that I know about. All the information about The Schools are stored the Alpha Data Base and that's the information I look for. I still have a lingering question, after all, about how Students are chosen.

It turns out, that singular choice was my equivalent to falling down the rabbit hole. I couldn't have imagined, even in a fever dream, what I would find.

I goggle at the screen in front of me, breath escaping in one great _whoosh_ as I scroll through the interface. Obviously, there are records for every Student, but I hadn't anticipated that they would be so detailed – or so invasive. I click on one at random for a Student from the previous graduating class, skimming through education and medical records, brushing through a career tracker, and find myself staring at the end of this guy's file. Right there at the bottom, one of the first logged bits of information on the file, is a genealogical report – and not just his mother and father, but also a comprehensive detail of his DNA, right down to disease markers that have been pinned _eliminated_.

It's the same for every random Student file. Every selection I make has the same highly-detailed assortment of data. There isn't a single thing that isn't noted about these Students – retinal scans and voice recognition, online activity, even their general preference for _fruits_.

A chill runs down my spine.

Almost mechanically, I click into the Student files for _my_ peers, the graduating Class of 2058. I don't know that I expect to find anything different, but as it happens, I start to notice something kind of….strange. It isn't so much how often legacies, Students who are related to other and previously graduated Students, pop up, even though there _does_ seem to be an alarming amount of legacies if I think about it from a statistical point of view. No, what's weird about it is how often that tag of _eliminated_ in the DNA report is replaced by a new tag I hadn't noticed before.

 _Augmented_.

My hands are flying over the keyboard now and I'm on the edge of my seat, face almost pressed against the computer screen as I start noticing _more_ patterns – more strange things. My mind reaches back to everything I've ever learned about DNA in school. Humans are supposed to have 23 pairs of chromosomes and anything more or less usually means ill-tidings for good health. But all these Students – I mean, it isn't like the reports come out and _say it_ , but I _can_ count and all of these Students have more DNA than they should. And maybe it's an error or I'm reading the reports wrong, but…

(No. I don't really think that. I'm smarter than that.)

Most, if not all, of the students in my graduating Class have 25 chromosomes and DNA markers that are notated more often with _augmented_ than _eliminated_. I gather those notations on the DNA are specific to eliminating genetic vulnerabilities, but I can't wrap my head around why there are two _additional_ chromosomes. And why those chromosomes are notated in language that I cannot translate.

Unless…

No. That's _insane_.

(Except it isn't.)

My hand presses against my mouth, holding in the sharp gasp that is sucked through my teeth. Okay. Okay, so while there might be a totally legitimate reason to _freak the hell out_ , I can't afford to do the freaking out _right now_. I swallow down the panic clawing at my throat and, with a shaky hand, click over to find my own file.

At first, I don't see anything out of the ordinary. It is kind of off-putting to see my entire life narrowed down to such clinical terms, but whoever does the records for the Alpha Data Base hasn't missed a mark. It isn't until I scroll to the end of my file that something catches my eye.

It's a death certificate.

It's _my_ death certificate, dated on the same day as the accident that killed Charlie. The day I, apparently, died at five years old. It wasn't a broken neck like my father, but rather a crunched shard of metal from the frame of the cruiser that struck the side of my head – that actually _passed_ through my skull and my brain – that killed me. Catastrophic injury. Too much trauma to survive.

The silvery scar on my temple. The nightmarish flashbacks that have never quite faded.

Only I'm still alive. And I've never had any reason to believe otherwise.

 _No. No, no, no, nonononononono._

Numbly, I look to my DNA markers. I have 26 chromosomes in total. The two that all the other Students seem to have and the last that seems to be unique to me; the last chromosome is annotated with the world _revitalized_ , and then additional words in the Centaurian language that I cannot decipher.

I think I'm going to be sick. Bile is rising in the back of my throat and the room is _spinning_ and I've been holding my breath for too long and –

I throw up, black spots dancing in front of my eyes.

Oh, God.

10.

There isn't going back after learning what I've just learned. No matter how desperately I want to, there isn't a way for me to erase the secrets that I've uncovered. And I'm angry and scared and just _miffed_ by the entire thing. Sick to my stomach. Literally, actually.

I don't know what to do with this knowledge.

By now it's obvious that students aren't chosen for The Central Schools just because they have a proficiency in some area that will help catapult the human race into the future. It's also because we all possess alien DNA – the extra two chromosomes swimming around in all the Students can't be anything else but Centaurian genetic material. But as much as I'm inclined to think of something nefarious about the Centaurians essentially having one massive eugenics experiment with humanity, some logical part of my mind cries out in counterpoint. The Centaurians have _never_ been hostile – and regardless of how sketchy it is, it seems like all the Centaurians _want_ to do is help humans. Which is why they've taken such great pains as to remove genetic predispositions toward developing certain diseases from human genes entirely. And _that_ part makes sense. But there has to be a reason why they felt it was necessary to add their own DNA to ours.

And, if I think about it long enough, is it really all that surprising? I mean, _can I really be so shocked_? Sure, a fringe part of humanity subscribes to the whole alien-overlords-beware school of thought and those people are generally regarded as being crazed conspiracy theorists. But, I mean, is it really a conspiracy theory if it turns out to be _true_?

"I need answers," I mumble to myself. The darkness of the computer lab, save the greenish-blue light from the flat monitors, presses all around me, almost comforting. Like I'm safe when it's just me and these secrets at my fingertips.

Maybe I _am_ safe. Didn't Edward tell me to dig deeper than I think I should?

But _why_ would he say that? And who exactly is Edward?

I can't discover everything in one night, though. I'll have a brain meltdown, or something. I mean, I recognize that I've compartmentalized the revelation that I was once not-so-alive and I'll have to unpack _that_ box of _what even_ at some point. But I can't keep going. Not right now. I need to _think_ about this – and decide where the root of this whole thing begins.

There is always the lingering question of _why_. I'll start there when my head doesn't feel quite so much like mush.

11.

"Bella?"

I'm broken from my reverie in the cafeteria by small hand on my shoulder and I twist my neck around, blinking owlishly up at Alice.

She frowns at me delicately. "You don't look so good. Are you sick?"

I shake my head mutely. I don't know why Alice feels compelled to check up on me after all these months, but I suppose I must look really awful if the skeptical gleam in her eye is anything to go by. Admittedly, I did catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection in the glass outside The Central School today and it isn't exactly a pretty sight; my uniform is wrinkled, my hair is wild, and my eyes are darker than usual, the seep of rich browns and mossy greens oddly flat and dull.

"You haven't eaten your food," Alice observes.

I haven't? I glance down at the tray and realize Alice is right. Even though I'm holding a fork in my hand, it seems all the utensil has accomplished is the demolition of what was once an omelet. My mouth is dry and stale. With my head somewhere else mulling over the…things…that I now know, I can't honestly recall the last time I had anything to eat or drink. A day or so, maybe.

"I thought you were allergic to tomatoes?" Alice asks. Then she sighs and reaches for my tray, picking it up with one hand with a shake of her head. "Here, let me take this. Honestly, are you trying to kill yourself, Bella? No wonder you didn't eat your eggs. Go get something that _doesn't_ have tomatoes in it, yeah?"

I nod and belatedly say, "Thanks, Alice." Only I don't think she hears me, already speeding off to her next destination after she deposits my tray in the trash receptacle.

It hits me like a sledgehammer a few hours later. I've had a low tolerance for tomatoes and papaya and watermelon and grapefruit for a long time, developing terrible hives and a swollen throat if I even try eating them. But I haven't _always_ been so allergic. I have a few memories of frozen watermelon in the summer before the accident and I used to love Renee's lasagna. After the accident, though, I inexplicably developed an allergy to foods with high concentrations of lycopene.

It's widely known that Centaurians are also allergic to lycopene. Go figure.

12.

For the first time since attending The Central School, I fail an examination. Like, _really_ fail in an embarrassingly public display. Not that I'm at the top of _every_ class, but I certainly can hold my own in the zero gravity simulations. Usually. Only today, with my mind on other things, not only does my foot slip off one of the boosters set into the wall, but I also completely mishear the instructor and end up flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling in a state of stupefaction when the gravity suddenly turns back on

"This is very unlike you," says Siobhan in concern. As my official mentor, she was called in by the other instructor to have a word with me about what the Centaurians consider a very uncharacteristic performance.

Not that they're wrong, but what am I supposed to _say_?

"I went over the video of the class," Siobhan continues, closing the cover of the thin tablet she always carries around. She catches my gaze for a moment, searching for _something_ , and then she says, "I would like you to try this stimulation course again. You may leave once you have completed it successfully. Is this acceptable?"

I swallow, forcing my expression into staying lax. "Sure," I agree with faux ease. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Yes, I would. If it could be any other way, I'd go back in time and _not_ take Emmett up on that stupid bet and I would _definitely not_ hack back into the Alpha Data Base to sate my own curiosity.

Siobhan departs, but I know that some other Centaurian is monitoring the video feeds. Ostensibly, it's for the safety of the Students, but now part of me wonders if that's _really_ the reason; and just thinking about that kind of Orwellian motivation gives me the creeps, so I very pointedly turn my concentration to the task at hand.

For individual sessions in the gravity chamber, all of the grey flight suits that Students wear are embedded with the same technology that is able to set specific courses that we are given access to. With the panel sewn into the forearm of the suit, I call up the program that I failed earlier and set the course to engage. The weightlessness filters into the rubber-padded room with a faint hum of machinery and my feet lift from the floor, the heavy braid of my thick hair floating away from my neck. I've always enjoyed the gravity chamber for this reason – it's almost like swimming, but infinitely more freeing. I don't think I'll ever actually be an astronaut and go into space, but I like this.

Colored lights work to guide me through the course and soon enough, I am pushing away from the boosters on the wall, propelling myself through the air to reach the next touch-point with my palm slapping against various buttons jutting from the walls. The path isn't as easy as going from point to point. It takes deliberation and a certain amount of acrobatics. Even with the aid of being weightless in the gravity chamber, it's difficult to spring from one wall to the other and not go completely out of control. Now that I'm focusing on it, I find it absurdly easy. I should have been able to do this _without_ thinking during class. It's like the movements just _come_ to me, like instinct.

Or like the extra dose of Centaurian blood that apparently brought me back from death.

Sweat trickles down the side of my face. I kick off the wall with a little too much force and, going too fast, my shoulder ends up slamming into the adjacent wall a good few feet away from my intended goal. Scowling, I roll so my chest is against the rubber and reach my newly bruised arm out toward the glowing button, just barely able to reach it.

" _Program completed. Score: 88% satisfactory,"_ comes a computerized voice.

Shoot.

I sigh, pushing away from the wall and rolling my shoulder with a wince. "Reset course," I order the computer. Even though I'm required to score at least an 80%, I'm not happy with how I'm performing here. I'm not a perfectionist by any means, I don't think, but it does bother me that my wandering thoughts are interfering with something that comes relatively easy to me. It's a matter of pride at this point.

Expecting a flurry of lights to show me the reset program, I'm surprised when instead the gravity begins to filter back into the room, effectively lowering me to the ground gradually. _"Disengaging program,_ " says the computer.

I narrow my eyes up at the ceiling, hands on my hips. "Uh, _what_? Computer, reset the course," I insist.

" _Program disengaged_."

I'm baffled. The computer is ignoring me and even the command prompt panel in the suit isn't responding to me. This hasn't ever happened before. "What on Earth?" I mumble in confusion.

"I'm afraid that's my fault," comes a voice from the entrance of the gravity chamber. It's Edward, dressed again in stark black, his expression set into one of polite apology. "Terribly sorry to interrupt, but I need to speak with you."

I'm instantly wary, but I think I cover it pretty well. "Oh, it's you. Again."

What does he want? Why won't he leave me alone?

Edward smiles in that enigmatic way of his. "May we speak? Privately," he clarifies with a deliberate flick of his eyes to the cameras set in the corner of the room.

My eyes widen. "What about?"

He tilts his head. "Computers," he answers glibly.

Oh, God. He _knows_. How does he know?

I nod weakly and expel a shaky breath. "Give me five minutes to change."

Edward winks.

It takes less than five minutes for me to wrestle out of the flight suit and into the regular uniform; my hands are shaking from inexplicable nerves, so I don't bother undoing my braid, unwilling to deal with the messy tangle of damp curls. I meet Edward out in the hallway. He is waiting patiently and when he sees me, he holds a finger to his lips – a universal signal to _hush_.

We don't speak on our way to my computer lab.

I can't think of anything to say, anyway.

Edward closes the door, gesturing for me to take a seat. I don't, even though my knees are shaking. I feel more comfortable standing; it gives me the false sense of comfort that, if I had to, I could protect myself. Scarcely blinking, I wait for bated breath for Edward to announce my punishment.

He doesn't.

"You weren't supposed to find out like this," he says gently.

"What?" I ask, a bit dumbly.

Edward sighs and casts his eyes heavenward, as if he's trying to collect his thoughts. "It's a bit difficult to explain, both your situation and the situation with your people. I'm not sure where to begin."

"Who are you?" I demand with a sudden boldness. I step toward him, licking my lips as my mind races. "You aren't just any average Centaurian. You act like you _know_ me, or something. Like you have an interest in me. And you obviously have the resources to know what I've been up to…Tell me I'm wrong," I challenge daringly.

"I am a Crowned Prince of my world," he answers without hesitation.

(He sounds honest. I have no reason to not believe him – and it's a gut feeling that I can't quite explain. I trust him, even if I don't trust the situation.)

"And the rest of it?"

"I have known you for thirteen years, Bella. Well, rather, I have met you once and have known of you since," he corrects, somewhat absently. He's searching my face for some hint of recognition and seems disappointed when he finds nothing of the sort. I have no idea what he's talking about. "You don't remember me?"

I shake my head silently.

Edward's long-fingered hand comes up slowly, his touch just barely ghosting over the silvery splotch of a scar right over my temple. The scar from where my head was partially impaled on a hunk of metal; the scar of the injury that had killed me before some Centaurian mystery brought me back to life. "The accident," he prompts with a sad smile. "I suppose you wouldn't remember. You were so young."

I am so confused. And trying not to visibly react to his touch, which sends a flash of heat through my body like a livewire. That's certainly new.

"You were there?"

Edward's vivid green eyes soften. "Bella, I saved you," he says with a tender, uncertain smile.

I flinch away from him and dutifully ignore the spike of hurt that crosses his angular, beautiful face. "You need to explain, right now."

He does. The explanation is haltingly told, oddly circular as he tries to pad everything with details, like he's trying to convince me of the honesty I am already sure of. Apparently, thirteen years ago, the Crowned Prince of the Centaurians had reason to tour the wilds of the Pacific Northwest and happened across a terrible motor accident – a dead man with a broken neck and a girl with barely a thread of life. The little girl – me – passed during extraction from the vehicle by emergency services and was declared dead in the ambulance. But for whatever reason, Edward felt drawn to follow with his armed guard. He tells me about how he felt so compelled and that he was helpless to resist the urge to do the impossible – to do what really hadn't been done before. As Crowned Prince, the human doctors allowed Edward access to the medical facility where he, barely an adult by Centaurian standards, used an ancient healing practice of his people. He tries to explain it, but it all seems to esoteric; what I gather, however, is that Edward basically did a blood transfusion of a sort.

Only, for Centaurians, that kind of ritual is one that binds the life forces. Permanently. He saved my life, but in doing so, he also claimed my life.

"We're married," I breathe in shock, finally sitting down before my knees completely give out.

Edward sinks down, kneeling on one knee. "Informally, but yes."

I stare at him in astonishment. "Oh, my God."

I'm _married._ To an alien prince. Whose people have been genetically experimenting on my people. This is unreal.

"We call it the Quickening," he hastens to say. "I assure you, it's very rare to feel a Quickening for another race and that it is not taken lightly at all. I have been watching over you from a distance, making sure that you would grow healthy and strong and independent. I didn't want to intrude on your life any more than I had – but, Bella, please understand that I could not let you _die_. It is…unthinkable."

It's a lot to take in. Kind of romantic, in a way.

But when I open my mouth, instead of the thousand things I could say in response to this Quickening business, what comes out is this: "But I'm not of a different race, am I? I mean, not really."

Edward twitches. "Ah, yes. That."

"If by _that_ you mean the fact that you Centaurians have been adding your genetic material to ours _without our knowledge_ , then _yes, that_ ," I say forcefully, surprising even myself with the amount of vehemence in my voice.

It's really not at all like me to be so assertive. Most people would describe me as quiet or absent-minded. But something about Edward brings out the worst – or the best – in me.

"I promise, there is a sensible explanation for that, as well," he says firmly.

(He's right.)

13.

The thing is, most of what we know about The Meteor is very limited. Humanity as a whole knows that there _was_ a massive meteor storm that threatened to obliterate the Earth and that the Centaurians were swift – and kind – enough to intervene to save us all.

Only, that isn't what happened. Technically, the Centaurians were actually late to the show, arriving in time to see a quarter of the Earth decimated by the meteor storm and the atmosphere beginning to burn up, exposing the rest of the world to catastrophic amounts of radiation. We were dying.

Until the Centuarians did what they seem to do best – save humans. Their technology is so superior to ours that they were able to deflect the larger meteors, apply artificial atmospheres to our world, and terra-form the worst of the damage. And the humans that were already dying from prolonged radiation exposure? They were gathered together and offered a choice; be saved by an intervention of Centaurian gene therapy and in exchange keep quiet about their treatment, or die a slow death as a human. The survival instinct in humans is particularly strong. Most people agreed to the gene treatment. But that solution had its own problems. Although the Centaurians were confident in the treatment, they also had no idea what it would do to future generations of humans who would also inherit a few extra chromosomes. The answer to that problem was the institution of The Schools, as decided by both Centaurian envoys and a newly minted World Council.

Why keep it all such a secret, though? In part, Edward explains, it was to minimize the risk of widespread panic, which I understand perfectly. But mostly, he says this is the way the World Council wanted it – humans are evidently more likely to trust in mysterious saviors when they don't know how much they're being saved.

He has a point.

The World Council re-wrote the history books and mandated a world-wide cover-up of the single most important event in human history – all to avoid a little bit of mass hysteria. And the Centaurians went along with it because they evidently have a _thing_ about respecting choices to a fault.

It's still the biggest conspiracy theory in a million years.

And later, when I'm thinking about it, I start to wonder just how willfully ignorant the whole of humanity could _be_. I mean, all those conspiracy theorists were _right_ when they pointed out how much different – brighter, taller, all around just _better_ – humanity seems to be evolving and how similar those evolutions are when compared to the Centaurians. But everyone just wrote them off by saying that _of course_ humans look different now; we have better medicine; we aren't at war; we have peace and longer lives. Nobody thought, not even for a second, that a few fringe conspiracy theories would ever be right.

I know I certainly didn't.

14.

Edward is holding my hands in his own, his fingers warm and soft and just firm enough. He ducks his head down so that his brilliant green eyes can meet mine, the ridges of his brows hiked high on his forehead. "You've been quiet," he says softly. Nervous about my reaction to the veritable information dump he's just unloaded.

"I'm thinking," I tell him.

"About what?"

"About what I'm going to do with…all of _this_ ," I answer.

So many secrets. So many lies. So much _good_ done with secrets and lies – including my continued ability to live and breathe and discover all the things humanity has been ignorant of for at least two generations.

"What will you do?" Edward wonders lowly.

My wrists twist so that my fingers can hook around his; the touch is comforting in a way that is both utterly foreign and sweetly familiar. "I don't know," I say slowly. "I haven't decided."

(Except that I have – and it makes my heart flutter in anticipation.)

 **THE END.**


End file.
